


Fall

by okayylmaocomputer97



Category: Moral Orel
Genre: Blood, Flashbacks, Guns, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, traumatic flashback
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 09:39:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6046852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okayylmaocomputer97/pseuds/okayylmaocomputer97
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orel has a flashback</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I just really wanted to write a fic where Orel has PTSD and has a flashback. I mean, getting shot by your scary, drunk dad when you're only twelve is bound to stick with you.

“See ya tomorrow, Doughy!” Orel Puppington calls with a wave before heading home. Birds chirp overhead and the weather is nice and warm.

Orel’s now 15 years old and finishing up his very first year of high school. He was nervous at first, but thanks to his amiable personality, he quickly made friends at Moralton High School. Spring had arrived early this year, putting him in a good mood. When he was younger, he was always happy, optimism and confidence practically radiating off of him. However, due to a certain…event, he smiled much less than before and often found himself in periods of deep depression. His optimism was still there, albeit in a much smaller dose than before.

As Orel walks down the sidewalk, he thinks about his plans for the weekends. He always did his homework first thing when he got home, and spent the rest of the day either reading the Bible, hanging out with Stephanie, or hanging out with his friends if they had the time. Really, anything to keep him away from his parents. ~~Especially his dad.~~

Orel sighs and looks up at the sky. It’s bright blue and dotted with a few small, white clouds here and there. He always loved the sky. It’s big and bright, practically the opposite of the of Moralton.

He should’ve been looking where he was going though, because the next thing Orel knows his foot hits a bump in the cement and he’s falling onto the ground. His hands shoot out in front of him on instinct to break the fall. It does, but his entire body skids, and he hisses in pain as his palms and knees grind against the coarse pavement.

“Ouch!” Orel groans, wincing in pain. He shifts onto his bottom to address his injuries. His palms are bright red from the friction and speckled with dots of bright red blood where the skin broke. Orel sighs, half in annoyance, half in disappointment for letting himself be so careless.

He then drew his attention to his knees. Both are throbbing and stinging sharply, one slightly more than the other. He rolls up the leg of his pant on the one that hurts slightly less, so as to prepare himself if the injury on the other is much more grotesque.

This knee is also bright red, but it seems the fabric gave it some protection, as it doesn’t appear to be bleeding. Orel sighs in relief and then rolls up the other leg, expecting it to be the same.

But it’s not. This knee, the one that bears an ugly scar from a hunting trip years ago, is bleeding. It’s not that bad, just some streaks of red; it must’ve been the one Orel landed on if it was injured this badly. But Orel just stares, stares at the blood slowly oozing out from the scrapes.

And suddenly he isn’t on the sidewalk anymore. Suddenly he’s back in the woods, sitting at a log in front of a campfire as his father drunkenly waves a rifle around. And suddenly theres a loud _BANG!_ and Orel falls backwards, pain flaring up in his leg and he’s still amazed that he didn’t scream in pain because _it hurts. It hurts so bad._

His breathing becomes fast and panicked as his eyes dart around wildly but the only thing he sees is his bloody knee. The air becomes cold and instead of the rough cement under his hands, he feels the cold dirt and dried leaves.

_“Orel, what did you do?!”_

He looks up in absolute horror and sees _him_ standing there. His head feels like it’s about to burst and he knee is on fire.

 _“I got shot…by_ you _.”_

His father gives him a condescending look. _“You should’ve been more careful, Orel!”_

Bile rises in Orel’s throat and he swallows it down. He doesn’t want want to look at his father, not ever again. He closes his eyes tightly and feels a hand on his shoulder shaking him roughly.

_“Orel! Orel?!”_

_“Go away,”_ Orel wants to scream. His father disgusts him. How dare he put a hand on his shoulder like this.

“Orel! Open your eyes!” The voice is no longer Clay’s, it’s that of Doughy. Orel flutters open his eyes and sees him kneeling above him, concern plastered on his face. “Are you okay?” Doughy asks, eyes wide in worry and horror.

Orel says nothing. He just looks around and finds, to his relief, he’s not in the woods. He’s back on the sidewalk, a couple of blocks from his high school. He hears the birds chirping softly again and feels a warm breeze caress his face.

He draws in long, shaky breaths as he stops crying. Doughy says nothing, and Orel is glad for that. The redhead simply waits patiently. Once his heartbeat slows down enough and Orel finds himself back in the present, he speaks.

“I…I’m…” _sorry._ He wants to apologize, yet he isn’t even sure what for.

“Don’t,” Doughy says before he can finish. “Orel, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Orel sighs and gets up, groaning as his knees begin to throb again. “I don’t know what happened…”

“You tripped and fell real hard!” Doughy replies. “Y-yeah…” Orel doesn’t want to tell him about what really just happened though. He doesn’t want him to worry. _“Was that…did I have a flashback?”_

“Want me to walk you home? Your knee is in pretty bad shape…” Orel accepts Doughy’s offer, and enjoys the feeling of his best friend wrapping his arm around his shoulder and ambling back home with him. They walk in content silence, Doughy humming softly while Orel does everything he can to stop himself from breaking down in tears right then and there.

His knee still throbs from the pain, but also from something else, from a different type of pain from long ago. Orel knows it’ll never leave, and he hates his father for it. He knows he should honor him, honoring your parents is one of the Ten Commandments, but Orel just can’t. Why should he honor a self-destructive alcoholic who scarred him both physically and mentally? They reach his house after what feels like forever. Doughy removes his arm as Orel limps up the steps to his front door.

“Take care, okay?” Doughy says. Orel smiles softly.

“Thank you,” He replies. Doughy smiles back before heading off to his own home.

It’s nice to know that even in this hellhole of a town, he’s still cared for. Orel is deeply thankful for that.


End file.
